


a willing ear (a hand to hold)

by teamfreehoodies



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Empathy, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Playfully Humanizing The Divine, Wholesome, platonic heartbreak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreehoodies/pseuds/teamfreehoodies
Summary: A little town in the mountains calls for the aid of a witcher and Geralt and Jaskier take on a contract that's more than it first appears to be.Even the divine have friends, strange as it may seem.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 56
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #03





	a willing ear (a hand to hold)

**Author's Note:**

> Me, writing an entire fic about a goddess mentioned exactly once in the whole show? it's more likely than you think.

The problem with Loc Muine is that it’s in the mountains but no one bothered to tell the weather there. It’s along the Pontar, just short of the mouth of it, and the Dwarves that turned it into more than just a clear spit of land between the two tallest peaks of Gory Sine didn’t much care for anything beyond the practicality of controlling the river access and establishing trade routes for the mining villages further north and west of them. Which means it’s got very lovely roads, and precious little in the way of anything else.

Jaskier wipes more sweat from his brow, snapping his other hand against his neck where an enterprising mosquito has seen fit to bite him. They’re only coming this far on the contract given to them in Tretogor because they could book passage on the river for most of it, and they had room for Roach as well. Truly, watching Geralt try and coax her onto the boat they’ve charted had been the last time Jaskier had enjoyed this entire cursed trip. They bob over another swell in the river, and Jaskier groans, leaning over to spit the gathered saliva out of his mouth. 

Who gets seasick on a river boat? Geralt huffs a quiet laugh at his misery, the utter bastard, but he does pass him a piece of candied ginger from one of his many pouches, so Jaskier decides he’s allowed to laugh a little as long as he keeps Jaskier in supply of the needed candy. He tucks the candied ginger into his cheeck and nods at Geralt in thanks, sucking gently at the precious remedy. 

The dwarf piloting their boat gives a hearty shout, echoed distantly from the shore, but Jaskier keeps his head down, too busy trying to calm his stomach still to brother keeping track of what’s going on outside the boat. The shouting does seem a good sign, and he hopes they’re approaching land soon. It’s been two days of this and he’s ready to get back on solid land as soon as possible. 

The ginger helps and his suffering lessens in time to actually help keep Roach calm as they’re pulled into harbour. He tangles his fingers in her mane, rubbing one hand soothingly down her neck as the boat slowly comes in to dock. Geralt comes back in time to help guide Roach off the boat, and Jaskier lets his legs buckle the second he’s clear on dirt again, laying flat on the path and pressing his palms thankfully into steady ground. He lays as still as possible to let his stomach settle while Geralt squares things away with the dwarves, and doesn’t move even when a shadow falls over his face, blotting out the sun. 

“Are all bards this kooky, or is yours a special flavor?” It’s not the voice he was expecting, but Jaskier’s been called worse by better so he doesn’t bother getting up. He does look though, curious to see who’s hired them this time. Well, hired Geralt. 

Geralt and the newcomer are both standing over Jaskier, and Geralt puts a gentle boot against Jaskier’s side to try to coax him into standing sooner. “He’s unique.” Geralt offers flatly, as Jaskier gives in to his prodding, dusting himself off as he stands up. At his full height he’s nearly a full head taller than the man they’re talking to, an unassuming human who looks to be the mayor of this place by dress alone. The man in question extends a hand to Geralt first, a good sign, and Jaskier lets some of the shittiness of his mood fade away. It’s the heat making him irritable. 

“Ertizen Kivirrer, Mayor of Loc Muine, and you are Geralt of Rivia and his bard, Jaskier, yes?” the mayor asks, even as Geralt reaches out to shake his hand in affirmation and greeting both. 

“We’re here about the contract you sent.” Geralt replies, releasing the mayor’s hand. Ertizen shakes his hand out subtly, but Jaskier sees it, and has to hide his own smile as if he were merely squinting against the sun as it beats down on them. 

“Right, of course! Business first, I see,” he says, rubbing his hands together. He gestures them into the town proper, and they follow him, Jaskier leading Roach as Geralt and the mayor walk slightly ahead. 

Ertizen is mostly repeating what they knew already from the flyer: mysterious illness plaguing the town, not easily spread, but the game was rotten, the fields either overgrown or fallow as if nature had given up following her own rules. None of it was new or interesting to Jaskier, so he spent the walk cataloguing the town, the strange lassitude that seems to hold it; besides the dockworkers none here seemed to be in a hurry to get anywhere or do anything, and where surely there ought to be a speck of life, behind a pretty maiden’s eyes, or in the twinkling laugh of a child, there was none. Hardly anyone was out on the street, though some of that might have to do with the oppressive heat and muggy humidity in the air. Those who were out kept their heads down, walking placidly and disinterestedly along the paved paths. 

It’s eerie, and for all of the mayor’s assurances that it’s not a plague, it still sends shivers of fear up his spine. There’s something _wrong_ in the air here, a palpable sense of the uncanny. Jaskier usually doesn’t care how long a contract takes, but this one he’ll be glad to see the end of.

* * *

Jaskier plays for the evening crowd in the tavern, an unusually subdued affair even though he plays his most rousing ballads. He collapses into the seat Geralt has saved for him after, feeling oddly downtrodden himself. “Any ideas for what’s in need of slaying?” he asks, reaching across Geralt to steal a bit of cheese from his plate. They’d elected not to try the meat, hearing that was one of the main sources of the strange illness, so cheese and bread and fruit had been the meagre supper offering. Geralt shoves the plate closer to him, and shrugs, folding his arms on the table.

“This is no monster I’m familiar with,” he answers, squinting at the people around them. “Seems more like a curse or a pox, though it doesn’t spread like one.” Little assurance that is, Jaskier thinks, keeping his shoulders straight and relaxed by force where they wanted to huddle into Geralt’s protective bulk. If it’s a pox he’s already been here long enough to be sick, no use in panicking now. 

“If it’s a curse on the whole town that’s an awfully powerful mage behind it.” Jaskier offers, thinking of Yennefer. She’s not this cruel, though she is likely this powerful.

“Might not be a mage.” 

“Not a mage? What then?” Jaskier laughs, trying to think of any single magic thing that might be able to curse an entire town. 

“Mayor said it’s been this way since Belleteyn, and Zecco told me this is nearby the Temple of Bloemenmagde.” 

“Who?” Jaskier asks, surprised that Bloemenmagde sounds familiar to him. Where has he heard that before? 

“The boat captain,” Geralt answers, smirking at Jaskier over his ale, “was an interesting conversationalist while you were losing your stomach over a few bumps.” 

“ _Oh_ , a few bumps he says, describing the absolute worst forty-eight hours of my _life_ , as if we didn’t ride the roughest river on the continent upstream with a drunken dwarf at the helm.” Jaskier scoffs, but he does remember hearing something about this now, though it’s vague and won’t sit still long enough to coalesce into a real memory. 

“Yaruga is rougher,” Geralt says, nodding to accept the rest of Jaskier’s estimation of their trip. 

“What a comfort.” Jaskier snipes back, sipping his ale and rolling his eyes behind the tankard. Geralt laughs so he probably didn’t get away with it, but that’s alright. “So what’s next then?” he asks, toying with the mug to keep his hands busy. 

“Take a hike to the temple, see if the sisters can help.” 

“You really believe in that?” 

“In Bloemenmagde?” 

“I meant the idea that this is a curse from a _goddess_ more.”

Geralt shrugs, looking around at the near silent-tavern, which would be filled to the brim with the noise of raucous laughing any other night. “Simplest answer is usually the right one.” 

No use arguing with that.

* * *

They get an early start with the trek down the valley, guided by the dwarves from the harbour, who seem to be entirely unaffected by whatever ails Loc Muine, though they spat at their feet when they heard they were helping to break it. 

“Those _bastards_ deserve every ill moment laid on them,” Zecco claimed when they spoke to him. They’d caught him just before he cast off back down the river, and while he was clearly antsy with the need to get going, he was also more than willing to tell them why Loc Muine had earned so much of his ire. “That city was built by my forefathers, and it’s a dwarven city still, aye in it’s bones and spirit it belongs with us. Would have never been lost except the Cleansing hurt more than just them elves, it did.” He spat again, then circled his thumb over his chin, drawing a line through the symbol before pushing his hand towards them, palm held in towards his chest. “Bloemenmagde will deliver it back to us, just you see.” 

He did give them directions to the temple, though he warned them of interfering with the divine as a parting gift as well. 

Jaskier is still thinking about Zecco’s warning hours later as they approach the Temple proper.

It’s a square building, sandstone and lime in construction if Jaskier had to guess. There’s a massive treetop extending from the middle of it, the kind of tree that speaks to centuries of growth, protected by the Order who tends it. It’s beautiful, unassumingly gorgeous; Jaskier feels the stirrings of a poem as inspiration eddies in the back of his mind. He’ll want to remember this. 

“Hail ye, and well-met, travelers!” Jaskier nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden voice, though it’s friendlier than they usually receive. Mezzo-soprano, he thinks, if he were to hear them sing. The voice resolves itself into a Sister of the Order, plain robes cinched with a silver rope belt, barefoot, with her hair covered by a loose hood; it’s pinned up, nearly invisible though it’s easy to tell she’s got ginger hair just by her eyebrows. She’s also a dwarf, or a halfling maybe, if her braided beard and diminutive stature are any indication. 

“Well-met,” Geralt says, pulling Jaskier back to his side where he’d been drifting closer to the tree, strangely compelled by its beauty. “This is my friend, Jaskier the Bard, and I am a Witcher, Geralt of Rivia.” Jaskier sketches a bow, remembering his manners enough to offer up a dazzling smile, though it’s strangely difficult to ignore the tree watching over them. 

“Well-met,” Jaskier offers, standing back up, “Are you of the Temple?” 

“Menla Erda, Maiden of the Fields, and yes, I am the Keeper of the Temple True.” She dips her head in a curtsy, then smiles at them both, guileless. “I see you admire the beauty of my goddess, and for that I give thanks, though I wonder what force brings two humans this far afield.” 

“Not human,” Geralt corrects, absentminded, though he’s not distracted by the tree like Jaskier is, he’s just distracted by Jaskier, who’s actively trying to wiggle out of his grip now. Geralt shakes him and Jaskier, shamefaced, stops trying to slip his grip on the back of his neck, waiting patiently for the niceties to be over with instead. _What is wrong with him?_

“We’re here on behalf of Loc Muine. The town is cursed and we were wondering if there was information to be had here.” 

“The town falls ill?” Menla’s entire demeanour has shifted, the vacant pleasantness falling away to reveal the stress and fear that’s clearly been hidden just beneath the surface. 

“The fields are unpredictable, the game rotten though it’s hale when shot down, and the butcher finds no fault in it; sickness persists despite this.” 

The pull towards the tree is mounting, and Jaskier taps his fingers to try and burn out some of the strange energy thrumming through him. It’s a stronger compulsion than he’s ever felt, and it’s actively difficult to tune back into the conversation between Geralt and Menla.

“Oh no,” Menla moans, turning towards the abbey, gesturing for them to follow, “You’ll want to see this then.” 

Finally, they start moving toward the tree and the itchiness in Jaskier’s blood calms down. 

“The Queen of the Fields takes a mortal form sometimes, when the harvest is good and she can afford to celebrate a winter instead of mourning it. It’s... well it’s usually a bit chaotic all told, but this one was different.” They turn a corner into the abbey itself, coming out of a short tunnel into the courtyard proper. The tree is even larger this close; it’s magnificent, awe-inspiring, massive and majestic; tears spring to Jaskier’s eyes to behold the beauty of it finally, in all its crowning splendor. 

“She didn’t come back on Belleteyn when she was meant to, and we thought—” Menla sighs, casting doe eyes at Geralt, “we didn’t know it was affecting the town too, else we would have called for help ourselves.”

“Why didn’t she return?” Geralt asks, though Jaskier is barely listening at this point, finally close enough to the tree to touch. The bark is rough under his palm, but something’s _wrong_. 

“She’s hurt,” he says, pulling his hand back to examine the sap clinging to it. This isn’t a Xylem tree, it shouldn’t be secreting anything, and yet the evidence is there in the muddy-brown fluid clinging to his fingers. 

“Unfortunately.” Menla mutters behind him, coming to stand at his shoulder. “We don’t know how, or what happened, but the tree’s been weeping since May Day. We found rot in a dropped branch just this morning.”

“That’s when the village began experiencing their troubles.” Geralt fills in, also stepping up to examine the tree. 

“She’s a goddess,” Menla whispers, reaching out to touch the trunk herself, with reverent hands. She rubs the sap between her fingers then watches it drip slowly towards the ground. “What can hurt the divine?” 

“Heartbreak,” Jaskier whispers back, in a voice not entirely his own. He shudders, feeling the ache of it in his chest, a curious heaviness that weighs down his limbs, trapping his spirit. He feels encased in amber, removed from the world and yet beholden to it. His heart stutters in his chest, and he gasps against the shooting pain that ripples through his chest, clutching at his doublet with sap-sticky fingers. 

“ _Jaskier_!” Geralt calls, catching him as his knees buckle. Next to him Menla moans, one hand fisted just under her sternum as she too buckles, and falls. She catches herself on the tree, and then _wails_ , a forceful outpouring of anguish as she prostrates herself at the base of the ancient Yew. She sobs, a violent expression of misery that cuts through Jaskier’s heart— he cries too, tears pouring freely as the misery encases him as well. 

“Geralt,” he sobs, alone and _wrong_ , overcome by the sudden acute knowledge of his worthlessness; “Geralt, _fuck_ ,” because he can’t name the pain in his chest but it needs _out_ , needs acknowledgement. Geralt lets go of him, setting him down against the walls of the monastery, suddenly so far from the tree, and he cries harder, watching Geralt _leave him_ because he’s never been enough, not for anyone or anything, never enough, fucking _useless_ — he screams, caught up in the sudden flash of rage and he punches his thigh, needing the release, needing to _punish_ — fuck why is he _like this_. 

Geralt drops back in front of him, grabbing fitfully at his hand— Jaskier resists, wanting to rend himself asunder, _how dare this mortal stop him_! Geralt pulls his fingers back from where he’s desperately trying to curl them into a fist, and Jaskier screams, shoving his other hand against Geralt’s shoulder to push him off. A strip of fabric, dripping wet, suddenly slides along his fingers and the fight and misery and anger are pulled out of him with it. 

He blinks stupidly at Geralt in the resulting silence, suddenly ashamed of his strange fit. His face flushes uncomfortably and he wipes his hair out of his eyes, fighting down the blush that wants to stain his cheeks. “Sorry.” he whispers, flexing his fingers. 

“That wasn’t you.” Geralt offers, holding up the rag. “Yew is poisonous, though I’ve never seen it behave that way before.” 

Jaskier, now aware of his surroundings again, clocks Menla lying just behind where Geralt is crouched in front of him. She’s still sobbing, but quieter, and it looks like she’s slowing down. 

“The tree did this?” Jaskier asks, still blinking against the violation of having his mind and emotions taken away from him. He rubs fitfully at his chest, where the memory of that stabbing pain lingers uncomfortably. 

“I rather suspect _Bloemenmagde_ did this.” Menla whispers, sitting up and wiping her eyes as she chuckles wetly. “My apologies Master Witcher, Master Bard,” she says, nodding to each of them in turn, “I’d no idea that would happen, we’ve never touched the Yew before, you see, nevermind that it’s poisonous.” She smiles at them, face dry though it’s slightly flushed and puffy still. “It’s a bit unorthodox to paw at the divine, really.” 

Jaskier grimaces in apology, clenching his hand into a fist, feeling the phantom prickle of the bark against his palm. “It’s me who owes the apology I think,” he says, meeting her eyes around the solid bulk of Geralt still crouched in front of him. “I don’t know what possessed me to do that, truly. I’m usually much more respectful, I promise.” 

Geralt snorts, ignoring the wounded look Jaskier casts at him as he stands up, dropping the rag back into Jaskier’s hands. His shirt is untucked, a single ragged edge trailing over the waistband of his pants.

Feeling oddly touched, Jaskier stands too, helping to pull Menla to her feet. “Well!” he cries brightly, rubbing his hands dry on his trousers, “it uh, it does appear we know the source of our mysterious curse at the very least.” 

Geralt grunts in agreement, peering up at the towering top of the tree. Menla and Jaskier look up with him, though Jaskier doesn’t find anything in the dancing leaves beyond the normal peace he feels when surrounded by the evidence of nature’s beauty. 

“How do you fix the broken heart of a _goddess_?” 

* * *

First you have to _find_ said goddess, apparently. “You know this is going to make a wonderful ballad,” Jaskier says, tripping after Geralt as they hike through the woods. Menla is leading them to the Birthing Shrine, the only place apparently that Bloemenmagde could reliably be summoned to. Magic in general isn’t Jaskier’s forte, but the kind having to do with the divine is really beyond his ken. It seems kind of silly to him that the summoning can’t just be performed anywhere, but it will add some delicious narrative tension to his ballad, so he isn’t entirely against it either.

Menla and Geralt both ignore him, but he carries on chattering about it anyways, content to just spitball aloud as they walk. The forest around them seems normal enough, though they pass through more variations of undergrowth than Jaskier normally associates with Kaedwen. They’d passed a patch of reaper’s ivy not two meters ago that Jaskier would have sworn he’d only seen in Ebbing previously, but it’s hard to tell if that’s more of Bloemenmagde’s influence or if Jaskier is just bad at identifying plants accurately. He’s never had much patience for herbcraft either, to be fair. 

When they finally come upon the Birthing Shrine it’s almost underwhelming. It’s a simple glen, and though it’s pretty with wildflowers blooming everywhere it’s also almost painfully plain, marked only by a series of flat river stones stacked on top of each other to rival Geralt for height. Menla approaches the stones with her head bowed, chanting an Elder player beneath her breath. It’s just a touch too lyrical and fast for Jaskier to translate it faithfully, but he catches enough to tell it’s a prayer of greeting steeped in loving reverence. 

Menla makes the same gesture as Zecco, a circle with a line drawn through it against her bearded chin, then pushed out towards the rocks. This seemingly wraps up her prayer and she turns to Geralt to ask for the ingredients. 

Jaskier leaves them to it, still feeling sensitive and sort of tetchy about being too close, just in case he gets pulled into the goddess’ sorcery again. He’s had plenty enough of heartbreak in his own life, he’s little interest in reliving anyone else’s. 

As they set up the summoning at the base of the rock structure, Jaskier prowls the edges of the glen, admiring the flowers and looking for a good place to perch and take notes. He wants the chance to scratch out some lines while it’s still fresh in his mind. Luckily there’s a mostly dry boulder just at the edge of the glen with a good enough view of the whole area that Jaskier’ll be able to see everything. It takes a few tries to get up on it, tall as it is, but once seated it really is an excellent view, well worth the trouble in ascending to it. 

By the time he’s seated they’re already burning the offerings, and the flash of green smoke that rises and then dissipates unnaturally fast captures Jaskier’s attention. He fumbles his notebook and pen to the ready, leaning forward over his criss-crossed legs to get a better view. 

The rock structure is no longer there, seemingly transformed into the towering form of the Queen of Fields, draped in holly and ivy and a carpet of wildflowers, a thorned nest woven into her head in place of a crown, from which sparrows spring, twitterpated and singing wrathful warning cries. Her face is carved as if from stone, a thundering visage of rage and sorrow both.

Her fingernails drip golden blood, but as Jaskier looks closer, the beauty falls aside, revealing long gouges in the flowers, rips in the carpet of ivy, as if torn apart by uncaring hands. It hurts to lay eyes on her, all her pain so visible. It feels like an intrusion, like the sanctity of something holy is being violated, too intimate by far for such a pretty forest glen. The sun shines incongruously down on them, limning the goddess in golden light, making the shadows where she has mutilated herself more visible, stark contrast to the sense of what should be. His heart aches to look at her, a piercing empathy that echoes in the carved out parts of Jaskier’s own soul, the whispering insecurities he’s spent so long burying that he hadn’t even known they were still there until the goddess called them into relief against her own misery made literal. 

Jaskier’s pen and notebook clatter to the rock between his folded legs, one hand clutching at his chest in the remembrance of pain once visited, the other covering his mouth, holding back the sudden sobs that want to burst forth as he stares at what should be the glorious Queen of Fields, but is instead a folded mimicry of her own self. 

As if the noise is the signal they’re waiting for, the goddess screams, bursting into a flock of sparrows then reforming fitfully, smaller in stature, compressed into a new vision, still a woman cloaked in flowers, though the nest of birds is gone, her hair a fountain of curls down her back, dipped black as if in ichor. She’s panting, chest heaving against some internal effort they know nothing about, but she pulls herself together, standing back up with the remembered grace of her station. She’s no taller than Menla like this, slight and frail in this new form, the slim _v_ of her hourglass waist a stark difference from the thick stolidness of her muscled body before. 

“You have summoned me,” she intones, gravel-rough, before she clears her throat and speaks in a grating falsetto, “Speak your intentions plainly.”

“We’ve come on behalf of Loc Muine,” Geralt starts, “They suffer under a curse and have contracted my assistance in healing their land.” 

Menla, awestruck by the appearance of her goddess, falls to her knees in prayer, ignored by all except Jaskier who fumbles for his notebook so he can sketch the rough shape of this strange tableaux. 

Bloemenmagde flickers, shifting back into the first visage she appeared to them as, before solidifying in this new form again, shaking her head at Geralt. “No, my people are well-taken care of, hearty and hale, they flourish under my steady hand.” 

“It seems your hand is not so steady these days. The people of Loc Muine fall ill from the game they hunt, and can’t control their fields to harvest.” 

“They are _fine_.” Bloemenmagde growls, flickering fitfully once more. Jaskier slips off his perch, picking his way carefully closer to where Geralt and the goddess are locked in their standoff. 

“They need help, oh Lady,” Menla interjects, sitting up on her heels. “The tree we protect for you decays without your presence, weeping sap, and the people of Loc Muine wither too without you to watch over them. The Witcher speaks true, though he speaks plain enough that I fear he doesn’t admit the whole of their suffering to you.” She stands up to her full height, a near-perfect match for the goddess in this new form. Jaskier reaches them just in time to stand next to Menla as she takes a deep breath, preparing herself to look her goddess in the eye and pronounce her failings.

“They starve in the city, for the meat makes them sick. There’s no joy in the people, worried for the weak amongst them who won’t survive the sickness, worried for their crops which wither unexpectedly: a famine is brewing and though they pray to you, you do not answer. Lady Bloemenmagde, we ask for your help, for the protection you have revoked from us with no provocation, while we devoutly maintain our worship still.” 

The Lady flickers, again, cycling through the conflicting visages in a kaleidoscopic shiver, too quick for mortal eyes to follow. 

“I have taken nothing from the people of Loc Muine— you would speak ill of your goddess? She who has fed you, provided for you, protected you?” Her rage is building, claws growing from her fingers, she scrapes them across her chest, drawing more golden blood to the surface, which bleeds in rivulets down her chest, catching in the tangle of thorns her dress has become. 

“You’re hurt,” Jaskier interjects, feeling the lacerations as if they have opened on his own chest. She blinks, stumbling back into her original form, before the crowing of the sparrows in her hair startles her back into the false form. 

“And what do you know of my pain, mortal?” She spits at Jaskier, increasing her height as she rises so she’s looming over Jaskier. 

“I’m a poet,” he laughs, spreading his arms to show he means no harm, “there’s none as well-versed in heartbreak as me.” 

“ _Heartbreak_!” she howls, gravel-hoarse, as the glen around them grows wildly, flowers and grasses and trees all bending in towards her, reaching out for her presence. The sky thunders ominously, and Geralt pulls his sword from its sheath, stepping in front of Jaskier and Menla. 

“It’s okay,” Jaskier calls out over Geralt’s shoulder, “it’s alright. We’ll listen.” 

“Listen?” The Lady asks, shrinking again, as the sky clears, clearly considering Jaskier’s offer. 

“Listen,” he affirms, stepping in front of Geralt, ignoring Geralt’s growls of protest. “There’s no instant cure for heartbreak, my Lady, only time and a willing ear.” 

Menla steps up next to him, as Bloemenmagde sits down, cross legged in the middle of the clearing. “We’re willing ears, Lady Bloemenmagde, we’d hear the tale of who hurt you.” 

“He was my friend,” she cries, silver tears dripping down her face, clearing away the false image as they carve paths down her cheeks. Jaskier steps closer, kneeling down in front of her. 

“Friendship is strong enough to break hearts just as well as any romance,” he says, opening up his hand so she has the choice to take it. “Sometimes friends can hurt us more deeply, because we give them more of ourselves.” 

Geralt makes a curious sound behind him, and comes closer, standing guard even as the goddess shrinks, becoming curiously child-like in her grief. She reaches forward to grasp Jaskier’s hand, completing the strange feedback loop between them, so that he cries too as her pain becomes his.

She tells her tale in halting sentences, of a friendship spanning across eons, before he tried to lay claim to her; she refused his advances, thinking them playful at first, before he revealed his fury at her decision. He’d claimed she’d led him on, then told her she was ugly anyways, that she owed him this because no one else would want it from someone like her. Eons, washed away in a moment of cruelty and she’d felt lost, felt he must be right, for she’d trusted him on everything before, what reason had he to lie? 

What reason, indeed. 

She’d been lost, not realizing it was Belleteyn until it had passed, and furious with herself for her failures had tried to twist herself into a new shape. A better shape, one more pleasing and less deceptive all at once, an impossible task and painful besides. As she twisted herself the land was spoiled too, and her failures compounded, making it harder to attend her duties, a curious shame hiding in her chest that she tried to excise, to carve out, to rend from her breast, though it stayed despite her best efforts. 

Menla and Jaskier cry with her, and Geralt bows his head too, her sorrow blanketing them all in gentle snow as the sky above them opens, snowflakes dancing on the summer wind as they drop to cover them all. 

* * *

Bloemenmagde lets the illusion fall, shivering back into her original form, solidly muscled, covered in ivy and thorns, her nest of sparrows returned and full of shrieking chicks. 

“Thank you,” she says, laying a hand each on Jaskier and Menla, She kisses Jaskier’s forehead and he steps back from her embrace, coming to stand at Geralt’s side. The Lady nods at Geralt, recognition enough for the both of them before she turns to Menla, cupping her bearded cheeks between her calloused hands. “Your devotion has saved me, Menla Erda, Keeper of the Yew.” She presses their foreheads together, an expression of tenderness so pure it brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes, before she steps back, pulling a scythe from the air around her. She snaps it against the ground, a rolling vibration that steals Jaskier’s attention as he watches it ripple through the plants around them— when he looks back she’s gone, the rock statue returned to its former state, though a single yew berry sits gleaming red atop the stack. 

* * *

They leave Menla back at the monastery, though not before she’s forced them both into hugs, Geralt grumbling all the while. Jaskier elbows him to get him to shut up about it in front of Menla, and receives a shove to his shoulder that nearly tosses him off the path entirely, laughing all the while. 

“So,” Jaskier says, when they’re a little ways more down the path, “do you think they’ll give me the full amount of coin?” 

“You?” Geralt asks, raising an eyebrow in amusement as Jaskier preens. 

“Yes _me_ , I did the most of the work on this one. I should think that merits the bulk of the prize.” 

“What work?” Geralt scoffs, keeping an easy pace as they pick their way back toward Loc Muine. “You held her hand, that’s not work.”

“I listened Geralt, you cantankerous oaf,” he laughs, skipping ahead so he can properly look Geralt in the eyes for this. “That’s worth more than you’d realize.” 

Geralt shakes his head, but he smiles as he does it so Jaskier takes it in stride, sensing rightfully that Geralt is just teasing him. “Besides,” he continues, unable to help himself. “A kind hand has done more for this world than a cruel one at every turn, and I’d lay my life on that.” 

“I’d like to hear you tell the mayor you saved the day through the power of friendship,” Geralt says, and Jaskier laughs, suddenly delighted with the idea. 

“I did, didn’t I?” he smiles to himself, a bubble of light ballooning in his chest. 

“In more ways than one,” Geralt concedes, quietly, though Jaskier hears. And that’s true as well, in its own way. 

After all, if he wasn’t friends with Geralt, who’s to say which way the day might have turned?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for QuickFic! Happy New Year!


End file.
